


the safety of objects

by ifnot_winter



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Tension, Awkwardness, Co-workers, Infidelity, Introspection, Loneliness, M/M, Memories, One Night Stands, One-Sided Relationship, Past Infidelity, Pining, Tension, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 16:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16622372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifnot_winter/pseuds/ifnot_winter
Summary: Fumbling his glasses right off the edge of the table, he managed not to step on them en route to snatching up the phone as the third buzz gave way to ringing. Bending to retrieve his glasses, he caught his shoulder on the corner of the nightstand and managed to press the answer button, cutting off the shrill electronic wail mid-ring. "Damn--Hello?" Glasses shoved firmly into place, he watched the cufflink skitter in concentric, diminishing circles across the scuffed polish of the hardwood floor and come to a leisurely halt a few feet away."Reid."Hotch.+Somehow the fragments of Sappho struck me as a great mental framework for CM fics. This was the first completed result, mostly an attempt at exploring Reid and flexing rusty writing muscles.





	the safety of objects

**Disclaimer:** The names of all characters contained herein are the property of CBS, etc. No infringements of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission.

Originally posted 06-08-07, part of an ongoing project to shift all of my ancient fanworks to ao3.

. . .

_I want to say something but shame  
prevents me_

Despite the best efforts of an incredibly agile mind, sleep continually evaded the grasp of one Spencer Reid; genius, addict, insomniac -- _lunatic, lover, and poet, of imagination all compact_. A rueful smile lit upon the angular planes of his face, dark gaze seeking out the comforting spines of several of the Bard's works, lamplight catching upon the gilded lettering of a volume of the sonnets; gift from a colleague in the Vegas field office.

Pulling down a secondhand copy of _Othello_ , relic from his LVU days, he curled into a corner of the couch and briefly lost himself to analysing the scribbles scoring the margins of dog-eared pages. His mother would have been horrified. Reid found the little notes and observations a curious comfort. Overly simple or inaccurate, often, yet quite normal, unremarkable, and for all that seeming to him incredibly precious; charming. Beside him, a mug of tea kept silent vigil, twists of fading steam rising from the surface of amber liquid like the last echoes of serpents engaged in endless, primal dance.

His first sip was the only one with warmth. The second proved tepid, the third unpleasantly cool and far too sweet. He poured the remainder out and set the mug in the sink, disturbing the precarious balance of power between a dinner and salad fork, and the spoon he'd used to sugar his tea. _Othello_ slid neatly into the space between the sonnets and _Titus Andronicus_ , and Reid returned to the rumpled expanse of his glaringly empty bed.

Caught in the snare of sheets and blankets and the predatorial, morbid circlings of exhaustion and an overactive mind, he wished his thoughts could be shelved so easily.

Watching the slow shift in the play of light illuminating the curve of a solitary cufflink stranded at the corner of his bedside table as dawn gained enough of a foothold in the skies to drive out the perpetual reddish glare of methodically spaced streetlamps, Morpheus stole upon him like the cleverest of thieves...for only the barest moment before the vibration of his cellphone nearly sent it careening over the edge of the dresser and shocked him back to the land of the living.

Fumbling his glasses right off the edge of the table, he managed not to step on them en route to snatching up the phone as the third buzz gave way to ringing. Bending to retrieve his glasses, he caught his shoulder on the corner of the nightstand and managed to press the answer button, cutting off the shrill electronic wail mid-ring. " _Damn_ \--Hello?" Glasses shoved firmly into place, he watched the cufflink skitter in concentric, diminishing circles across the scuffed polish of the hardwood floor and come to a leisurely halt a few feet away.

 _"Reid."_ Hotch.

His hand drew back of its own accord, settled, pressed faintly into the fabric of his ratty pajama bottoms. Left the cufflink where it had fallen. He tore his gaze away, stared at the faded plaid beneath his fingertips, interwoven lines of green and blue washed to achromatic by the wan light, senses competing with memory.

He cleared his throat, tried for his voice again. "Sorry, I--um..." Beseiged suddenly by a knot of conflicting emotion he had no time to dissect before it resolved itself into the simultaneous and diametrically opposed sensations of relief and disappointment as Hotch briefly outlined their latest assignment. A case. Of course.

Snugging a tie into place, windsor knot falling just within the borders of permissible lopsidedness, Reid engaged his hollow-eyed reflection long enough to make an effort at wrestling rampant bed-hair into a modicum of submission.

The forgotten cufflink rattled across the floorboards at his feet as he crossed to the door, hastily-packed overnight bag slung over one shoulder. Sounding lightly as it connected with the metal frame supporting the nearest corner of the bed, it brought a flicker of shame to the surface of his skin like gooseflesh, echoing the chime of tiny vials as he secreted them within his small bag of toiletries, tucked deep within the muffling layers of loosely folded clothes.

The shame made him take pause, long enough to bend and pocket the offending object.

He found himself unable to leave it be. His fingertips continually sought it out, worrying at it, learning it by touch as he had by sight...as he had with its owner. Anchoring him as he had stared across a corkboard collaged with glossy family snapshots, semi-gloss eight by tens of the crime scenes and victims, maps stuck with multicolored pins denoting residences, workplaces, meticulously staged body dumps. His mouth rattling off statistics and forming theories founded in precedent as easily as breathing.

Clenching the cufflink in his palm, he wondered that the strong, graceful lines of the tastefully etched monogram didn't wear a scarlet brand into his skin. Gideon's keen, appraising gaze fixed upon him from across the wide continent of a chessboard, surely prying its way into his truths, reserving judgment.

Reid's glance flickered briefly around him. Behind Gideon was Morgan, headphones in place, eyes closed, incomplete report open in front of him. To the left, JJ sifting through a stack of folders, making occasional notes onto a legal pad. At the far end of the long bench seat, Hotch, reading through an unrelated casefile, the tailored lines of his dark suit still retaining their freshly pressed crispness. Reid's eyes caught upon the immaculate windsor knot at his throat, the brilliant scarlet of the tastefully patterned silk.

His gaze shifted upward, then away before his scrutiny could be noticed. By anyone save Gideon, who was still watching him with that Sphinx's stare, slightly warm--or perhaps that was the flush wanting to creep above Reid's loosened collar, into his cheeks--and knowing.

Lowering his eyes to the chessboard, he interlaced his fingers, set his elbows upon the edge of the table.

Three moves ahead. Right.

 _yet if you had a desire for good or beautiful things_  
_and your tongue were not concocting some evil to say,_  
_shame would not hold down your eyes_

_but rather you would speak about what is just_

. . .

Fragments at beginning and end from Anne Carson's _if not, winter_ , a translation of the remaining fragments of Sappho. The italicized quote in the first paragraph ( _lunatic, lover, and poet, of imagination all compact_ ), Wm. Shakespeare. 


End file.
